Metalocalypse Stuff
Mar. 13th, 2007 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Piano
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 3179
“Gahddammit Chuck.”
The words themselves were angry but there was a heavy undercurrent of amusement to the way they were stated. Quite the reversal from the usual scheme of things but he wasn’t going to complain. Not now. Not when he was going to take everything he wanted and it would be given up with only a modicum of complaint and a hell of a lot of eager willingness. Besides, even if Pickles had forgotten, he’d been warned, broadly and firmly and clearly, and he’d gone ahead and done it anyway.
C.F. Ofdensen, Esq., was a powerful man. He kept himself out of the limelight as much as possible and made his moves, constantly repositioning Dethklok so that they grew stronger and more powerful with every change. That power, and all the money that came with it, were two of the major reasons he’d stuck with the biggest metal band in the world as long as he had. But there were some other intangible benefits too. He’d never been much of an artist in the traditional sense. Prose and poetry, the blank canvas, a roll of film, instruments – at none of those things had he been more than mediocre. But he’d grown up loving music, was able to draw inspiration from it. And, as he’d gotten older, he’d found himself drawn to those who made music. It turned him on; charged all of his batteries. The energy musicians had in turn spurred his creative juices and got his blood pumping too. His personal medium was in the realm of law and finance largely and he had crafted, if he did say so himself, some simply stunning contracts thanks to the sheer amount of mayhem his ‘boys,’ as he liked to affectionately call them in the privacy of his own head, could cause just by waking up in the morning.
Too, even though he rarely let any of them catch him at it, he liked to nod along to the brutal rhythms, screaming guitars, and the rough, honest lyrics that captured the band so well. They kept pushing him to new heights even as they themselves climbed, and that was more than he could have ever hoped for. And it didn’t hurt that he’d grown fond of them, very fond in a particular redheaded drummer’s case. So he drank up as much of the music as he could and made sure that what he wasn’t equipped to handle had been expressly forbidden.
Charles remembered the night of the warning well. Acclimated after all his time with the band, normal instrumentation or catching Nathan randomly singing to himself in the hallway didn’t typically affect him beyond an interest in what was being developed or fiddled with. But the night he’d walked into the dining room expecting to give the evening briefing and found instead only an empty table, Pickles, and a set of timpani, things had changed somewhat.
“Sorry dood,” Pickles had grinned, flicking a pair of red dreadlocks back over his shoulder. “I kinda ran everybody off. They should all be hangin’ in the tv room if you wanna catch ‘em. I’ll be down in a few.”
And then he’d proceeded to play a modified combination of the percussion beat and a pared-down version of the melody from one of the tracks they’d been working on for the past two weeks and Charles had found himself able to do little more than lean up against the doorframe and watch, listen, FEEL. Needless to say, there hadn’t been an evening briefing that night. As soon as Pickles had finished, in a move that left both of them impressed with Charles’ sudden burst of speed, the drummer had been bent backwards over the largest of the four drums and his mouth thoroughly ravished. The thin thread of control the manager had left kept him from screwing the redhead right then and there but the pace at which he’d hauled the smaller man back to his rooms could only be described as headlong.
Later, sated and listening with some amusement as Pickles tried to encompass what had just happened to him with his pleased and befuddled Midwestern drawl, Charles had laid the basics of his curious kink out for the drummer. Then, to cap it all off, although by that time he’d been halfway down his bed and between pale, soft, surprisingly downy thighs, there had been one very explicit prohibition. He’d made sure, with very warm and wet strokes for emphasis, that Pickles knew what would happen if that forbidden act were to ever happen in his presence. But the drummer had gone ahead and done it anyway and so, Charles reasoned, he full well deserved exactly what he was going to get.
He hadn’t really been looking for Pickles, just wandering around the backstage recesses of the old German stadium himself much as the rest of the band was doing. Dethklok had never played in Düsseldorf before and it was common practice to check out the layout of their venue the day or at least a few hours before they were scheduled to perform. The Schauspielhaus was a traditional theatre and so the backstage area was a warren of small rooms and twisting, changing corridors lined with backdrops, scenery and scaffolding. As he’d ventured deeper amid the detritus of past plays, the noise from the sound crew busy putting up the wall of speakers required by the band faded away and ever so faintly he detected the notes of a familiar Bach piece.
Baroque music was a weakness of his. He found it relaxing and stimulating at the same time, precise and yet never mechanical, melodic without being overly dramatic. The strains of Sinfonia Number 1, the strong, bright notes of the C-major piece alternating between rapid bass and treble scales before synching occasionally for scattered, brief runs, quickened his pulse. He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to hear the piece in its full glory unobstructed by barriers and fearing the risk he could be taking. But Charles, ever the music lover, had faith in his powers of restraint and so he had ventured forth between the dusty heavy curtains and around bits and pieces of a downtown set.
It was a baby grand, black of course but not as sleek as many of the ones he’d seen before. This piano had seen a lot of use and was probably kept for practice, a tuning board for the singers and as a simple means of accompaniment. In spite of its dingy appearance, the instrument had a clear tone and his fingers itched, curled in on themselves as a childhood admonishment came back to frustrate him. But then he had to smile, teeth bared in a rather predatory grin as he realized who was playing. Despite the warning he’d given the drummer, he hadn’t been entirely sure of Pickles’ skill. Sure the redhead did a lot of the arranging with Nathan and had once or twice filled in on a synth when they hadn’t been able to get a session musician. But none of that had ever really demonstrated just how much talent Pickles actually had. Apparently the answer was rather a lot. Oh, he’d never be a concert pianist but why would he want to be when he was a metal god?
And he was also very much free to pay for the violation of one of Charles’ few ironclad rules. On quiet feet, the manager made his way across the wooden floor, crossing at an angle just beyond the drummer’s peripheral vision. Then a few quick strides and he made his appearance, leaning against the sleek curve of the piano and not even bothering to keep the leer off his face. Pickles faltered, slowed down the tempo and skipped a few notes, but he didn’t stop and Charles didn’t tell him to. Instead, after he carefully closed the lid, he propped an elbow on the instrument and just watched. If the drummer was bothered, it didn’t show. After another glance at Charles, leaf-green eyes had slid shut and Pickles had continued playing, fingers skimming over the keys until he stopped on the final note, holding it out far longer than was called for.
“Well? Didja li-mmmmph!”
“I warned you once.” The words were mumbled, an interrupted slur as Charles spoke against the drummer’s mouth. “And I don’t like to repeat myself.”
There was a brief scuffle as Charles tried to wedge himself in between the keys and Pickles; the redhead in turn swearing whenever he was allowed air and trying to get enough traction to slide the bench back to give the manager space. Ultimately Charles, hip pressing down against the keyboard so that a rather ugly chord jangled harshly throughout the room, decided to be expedient and hauled the drummer to him rather than trying to find room. Pickles wasn’t given any chance to catch his footing as he was flipped around, shoved against the bow of the piano while Charles’ hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. That was when he’d cursed, breathless and on the volatile edge between arousal and laughter.
“Gahddammit Chuck.”
“Pianos,” Charles murmured, teeth grazing the outer shell of the drummer’s ear, “are a no-no. Unless…” He dipped his thumbs beneath the loosened waistband, slid denim down to tangle around well-worn sneakers. No underwear. Thank fuck, as Murderface would so crudely say, for freeballing. “Do you take some sort of perverse pleasure in provoking me?”
“I think if anybody’s a perv here, it’s you dood.” A familiar lopsided smile was tossed his way over one shoulder, Pickles craning his neck to try and glance down at his own t-shirt-covered back to see the hand splayed in the middle of it, palm pressing into his spine and keeping him lightly pinned up against the black wood. “’Sides, I was just mindin’ my own business back here. Wasn’t tryin’ to start nothin’. You did that yerself.”
“Regardless of your intentions…” Hissing quietly through his teeth, Charles paused to finagle his belt buckle, button, and zipper, a warm gust of breath washing over the back of the drummer’s neck when he finally managed it and could directly palm his aching cock. “Regardless,” he tried again, pressing none too lightly into Pickles’ backside and flapping his arm out of his suit jacket. “You kept going even after you knew I was here. And that would, I believe, constitute provocation…damn this thing…under practically any circumstances.”
Frizzy red coils of hair brushed over Charles’ knuckles, some slipping forward around the bare curves of Pickles’ shoulders. The drummer leaned forward to chuckle into the crook of his elbow, laughter growing louder when that only made his manager move even closer, press down on his backbone more firmly. “S’pose yer right. So whaddya want me to do ‘bout it?”
An interesting answer at first as he spat into his free hand, wet his cock as much as his patience could stand. “Something of a contradiction,” Charles ground out, guiding himself forward to nudge at the hot opening into the smaller man’s body. “I want you to…mmm…relax…yes…and hold on…ahh…hold on tight.”
Familiar burning, accented by speed and sloppily lax preparation, found Pickles biting down hard into the thick muscle of in his forearm, teeth digging in enough to later leave an oval ring of bruises as his manager slid in all the way in a single steady push. More teeth, not his, found the side of his neck and spread a welcome blossom of distracting, teasing pleasure-pain. And then all he could do was follow Charles’ instructions, clinging to the top of the piano, nails scrabbling at the painted wood, as he was fucked hard and fast. It was downright brutal especially since he could do little more than take it. Charles had moved his hands, one down to his hip to help pin him in place and the other up to keep his own safely on top of the instrument. His cock had only air to meet it unless he wanted to risk the friction of the underside of the piano, which he didn’t particularly fancy. He was needy but he wasn’t desperate, not yet.
Usually Charles preferred to take things slow, a hair away from torturous while he teased his bed partner into a frenzy. Slow and smooth and often quiet - at least on his part - but this time, one of his odder arousal buttons pushed until it was stuck in the “ON” position, all he cared about was getting off. That and getting some noise out of the drummer before he shot off. Pickles, in spite of his accent and usual way of speaking, HAD been the lead singer for one of the biggest rock bands of the late ‘80s. When he wanted to, which wasn’t often except for when he was in the shower, particularly smashed from whiskey, or in bed, he could be quite musical vocally. There was this one sound, a throaty sort of moan pitched perfectly to a high bass G, that literally made Charles weak in the knees and had pushed him over the edge more than once. It was a particularly nice moan and, if anyone happened to walk in on them, at the very least he wanted them to come away from the discovery mildly impressed.
“Uhhn, Chuck.” Pickles’ head lolled, rolled forward to offer the back of his neck. Whether it was a weird submission thing or if he just was really sensitive there, being bitten at that spot where his spine met his skull always made him feel really turned on and set his pulse thundering in his ears. There was little else he could do. Every time he tried to match the other man’s rhythm, attempted to move his body away from where his ribs and naked hipbones were grating against the wood, Charles put even more weight on him and pressed him even harder into the piano. It was pretty hot actually but his cock still hadn’t gotten any attention and he craved a distraction from its steady demanding throbs for touch. “C’mon doooood…give a guy a brea-aaahhn.”
A growl, an actual growl as Pickles would later keep reminding him with a lopsided grin and really bad insinuations and jokes about puppies, ripped its way out of Charles’ throat as his teeth closed over the offered bit of salty flesh. Suction and pressure, blood vessels popping and thin stretched skin THIS close to puncturing, and he had his sound. The drummer stiffened at first and then went slack, pleased, perfectly in tune moaning interrupting his half-begged complaints. There was no more resistance and Charles slammed into Pickles hard enough to send the piano scraping an inch or so over the floor. A final shove, twice as brutal as his first, and he shuddered, spilling into the willing drummer’s body.
Weight sagged, both men more or less held up by the sturdy frame of the piano, and Pickles managed a whispered “fuck” after a moment, fighting against the hold still over his arms and at the too-soft rasp of Charles’ tongue over what would be a wicked bruise in a few hours. He was still hard and ready, the rest of his body over-stimulated and the possibly splintery underside of the piano growing more appealing by the second. But before he even had a chance to throw off the manager’s grip and wrap a hand around his waiting flesh, Charles surprised him again. In a move the drummer was too bemused and horny to follow, he was spun and lifted, palms cupping his buttocks for a moment before he was deposited on the body-warmed top of the piano.
“Muther douchebag! Chuck, what the hell?”
Change and a lighter rattled as they hit the floor, falling out of a jeans’ pocket when one leg was yanked the rest of the way off in response to the question. Charles moved in, replaced his hands on what he could manage to grab of Pickles’ ass to tug the drummer forward even as he leaned over to lay a wet stripe over the raw patch of skin at a slightly protruding hipbone. Clever, talented fingers worked their way into his hair; thumbs smoothing over his jaw before pressure none too subtly urged him away from the scrape and towards the redhead’s neglected erection.
Heat. God, so hot and wet. Charles’s face was buried in his lap, mouth working quickly and deeply, for once no teasing, and Pickles reveled in the feeling of his well-earned relief. The hands on his ass worked in conjunction with his own jerking hips, lifting him up and working him towards the back of the manager’s throat. He was close, Charles doing amazing things with his tongue and trying his damnedest to take in every last bit of him. Sharp, white-covered elbows dug into the drummer’s thighs and the grip on his rear tightened as he was spread wider, open and aching and his skin slick from the semen leaking out of him onto the surface of the piano lid.
“Ah gahd…Charlie!”
His world narrowed to a tiny window; the heat of the air from his nostrils as he breathed in as deeply as he could manage with his nose pressed into the coarse auburn hair at Pickles’ groin, the weight in his hands that had gotten slippery, the pressure at the back of his mouth and on his palate, the taste against his tongue as he swirled it along the underside of the drummer’s cock. Charles scarcely felt it when he was pressed even closer, fingers digging into his skull and not letting him move back. He concentrated on working the muscles in his throat, on coaxing out the redhead’s release and was rewarded mere instants later as Pickles threw his head back and came with loud yell. Charles swallowed almost reflexively, getting most of it before he pulled away, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he straightened. Pickles’ usually vibrant green eyes were hazy, glazed over from the rush, and Ofdensen offered the drummer a smug smile as he tucked himself back inside his pants.
“Have you learned your lesson Pickles?”
The drummer blinked, shook his head absently. He made quite a picture, perched on the sticky edge of the piano with his jeans around one ankle and a hickey slowly resolving itself on the side of his neck.
“Wha? Oh, yeah. Yeah I got it, Chuck. ‘S bin drilled inta me I guess you could say.”
He let his dark gaze over the rims of his spectacles answer that before he bent down to pick up his suit jacket. “Good. I don’t want to have to teach it again.”
“No worries there, dood.”
No, no worries at all. They both knew that even as he spoke Pickles was mentally trying to figure out just how many pianos he could get into Mordhaus and where he could put them. Life back home was going to be very…vigorous…for a while.
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Word Count: 3179
“Gahddammit Chuck.”
The words themselves were angry but there was a heavy undercurrent of amusement to the way they were stated. Quite the reversal from the usual scheme of things but he wasn’t going to complain. Not now. Not when he was going to take everything he wanted and it would be given up with only a modicum of complaint and a hell of a lot of eager willingness. Besides, even if Pickles had forgotten, he’d been warned, broadly and firmly and clearly, and he’d gone ahead and done it anyway.
C.F. Ofdensen, Esq., was a powerful man. He kept himself out of the limelight as much as possible and made his moves, constantly repositioning Dethklok so that they grew stronger and more powerful with every change. That power, and all the money that came with it, were two of the major reasons he’d stuck with the biggest metal band in the world as long as he had. But there were some other intangible benefits too. He’d never been much of an artist in the traditional sense. Prose and poetry, the blank canvas, a roll of film, instruments – at none of those things had he been more than mediocre. But he’d grown up loving music, was able to draw inspiration from it. And, as he’d gotten older, he’d found himself drawn to those who made music. It turned him on; charged all of his batteries. The energy musicians had in turn spurred his creative juices and got his blood pumping too. His personal medium was in the realm of law and finance largely and he had crafted, if he did say so himself, some simply stunning contracts thanks to the sheer amount of mayhem his ‘boys,’ as he liked to affectionately call them in the privacy of his own head, could cause just by waking up in the morning.
Too, even though he rarely let any of them catch him at it, he liked to nod along to the brutal rhythms, screaming guitars, and the rough, honest lyrics that captured the band so well. They kept pushing him to new heights even as they themselves climbed, and that was more than he could have ever hoped for. And it didn’t hurt that he’d grown fond of them, very fond in a particular redheaded drummer’s case. So he drank up as much of the music as he could and made sure that what he wasn’t equipped to handle had been expressly forbidden.
Charles remembered the night of the warning well. Acclimated after all his time with the band, normal instrumentation or catching Nathan randomly singing to himself in the hallway didn’t typically affect him beyond an interest in what was being developed or fiddled with. But the night he’d walked into the dining room expecting to give the evening briefing and found instead only an empty table, Pickles, and a set of timpani, things had changed somewhat.
“Sorry dood,” Pickles had grinned, flicking a pair of red dreadlocks back over his shoulder. “I kinda ran everybody off. They should all be hangin’ in the tv room if you wanna catch ‘em. I’ll be down in a few.”
And then he’d proceeded to play a modified combination of the percussion beat and a pared-down version of the melody from one of the tracks they’d been working on for the past two weeks and Charles had found himself able to do little more than lean up against the doorframe and watch, listen, FEEL. Needless to say, there hadn’t been an evening briefing that night. As soon as Pickles had finished, in a move that left both of them impressed with Charles’ sudden burst of speed, the drummer had been bent backwards over the largest of the four drums and his mouth thoroughly ravished. The thin thread of control the manager had left kept him from screwing the redhead right then and there but the pace at which he’d hauled the smaller man back to his rooms could only be described as headlong.
Later, sated and listening with some amusement as Pickles tried to encompass what had just happened to him with his pleased and befuddled Midwestern drawl, Charles had laid the basics of his curious kink out for the drummer. Then, to cap it all off, although by that time he’d been halfway down his bed and between pale, soft, surprisingly downy thighs, there had been one very explicit prohibition. He’d made sure, with very warm and wet strokes for emphasis, that Pickles knew what would happen if that forbidden act were to ever happen in his presence. But the drummer had gone ahead and done it anyway and so, Charles reasoned, he full well deserved exactly what he was going to get.
He hadn’t really been looking for Pickles, just wandering around the backstage recesses of the old German stadium himself much as the rest of the band was doing. Dethklok had never played in Düsseldorf before and it was common practice to check out the layout of their venue the day or at least a few hours before they were scheduled to perform. The Schauspielhaus was a traditional theatre and so the backstage area was a warren of small rooms and twisting, changing corridors lined with backdrops, scenery and scaffolding. As he’d ventured deeper amid the detritus of past plays, the noise from the sound crew busy putting up the wall of speakers required by the band faded away and ever so faintly he detected the notes of a familiar Bach piece.
Baroque music was a weakness of his. He found it relaxing and stimulating at the same time, precise and yet never mechanical, melodic without being overly dramatic. The strains of Sinfonia Number 1, the strong, bright notes of the C-major piece alternating between rapid bass and treble scales before synching occasionally for scattered, brief runs, quickened his pulse. He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to hear the piece in its full glory unobstructed by barriers and fearing the risk he could be taking. But Charles, ever the music lover, had faith in his powers of restraint and so he had ventured forth between the dusty heavy curtains and around bits and pieces of a downtown set.
It was a baby grand, black of course but not as sleek as many of the ones he’d seen before. This piano had seen a lot of use and was probably kept for practice, a tuning board for the singers and as a simple means of accompaniment. In spite of its dingy appearance, the instrument had a clear tone and his fingers itched, curled in on themselves as a childhood admonishment came back to frustrate him. But then he had to smile, teeth bared in a rather predatory grin as he realized who was playing. Despite the warning he’d given the drummer, he hadn’t been entirely sure of Pickles’ skill. Sure the redhead did a lot of the arranging with Nathan and had once or twice filled in on a synth when they hadn’t been able to get a session musician. But none of that had ever really demonstrated just how much talent Pickles actually had. Apparently the answer was rather a lot. Oh, he’d never be a concert pianist but why would he want to be when he was a metal god?
And he was also very much free to pay for the violation of one of Charles’ few ironclad rules. On quiet feet, the manager made his way across the wooden floor, crossing at an angle just beyond the drummer’s peripheral vision. Then a few quick strides and he made his appearance, leaning against the sleek curve of the piano and not even bothering to keep the leer off his face. Pickles faltered, slowed down the tempo and skipped a few notes, but he didn’t stop and Charles didn’t tell him to. Instead, after he carefully closed the lid, he propped an elbow on the instrument and just watched. If the drummer was bothered, it didn’t show. After another glance at Charles, leaf-green eyes had slid shut and Pickles had continued playing, fingers skimming over the keys until he stopped on the final note, holding it out far longer than was called for.
“Well? Didja li-mmmmph!”
“I warned you once.” The words were mumbled, an interrupted slur as Charles spoke against the drummer’s mouth. “And I don’t like to repeat myself.”
There was a brief scuffle as Charles tried to wedge himself in between the keys and Pickles; the redhead in turn swearing whenever he was allowed air and trying to get enough traction to slide the bench back to give the manager space. Ultimately Charles, hip pressing down against the keyboard so that a rather ugly chord jangled harshly throughout the room, decided to be expedient and hauled the drummer to him rather than trying to find room. Pickles wasn’t given any chance to catch his footing as he was flipped around, shoved against the bow of the piano while Charles’ hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. That was when he’d cursed, breathless and on the volatile edge between arousal and laughter.
“Gahddammit Chuck.”
“Pianos,” Charles murmured, teeth grazing the outer shell of the drummer’s ear, “are a no-no. Unless…” He dipped his thumbs beneath the loosened waistband, slid denim down to tangle around well-worn sneakers. No underwear. Thank fuck, as Murderface would so crudely say, for freeballing. “Do you take some sort of perverse pleasure in provoking me?”
“I think if anybody’s a perv here, it’s you dood.” A familiar lopsided smile was tossed his way over one shoulder, Pickles craning his neck to try and glance down at his own t-shirt-covered back to see the hand splayed in the middle of it, palm pressing into his spine and keeping him lightly pinned up against the black wood. “’Sides, I was just mindin’ my own business back here. Wasn’t tryin’ to start nothin’. You did that yerself.”
“Regardless of your intentions…” Hissing quietly through his teeth, Charles paused to finagle his belt buckle, button, and zipper, a warm gust of breath washing over the back of the drummer’s neck when he finally managed it and could directly palm his aching cock. “Regardless,” he tried again, pressing none too lightly into Pickles’ backside and flapping his arm out of his suit jacket. “You kept going even after you knew I was here. And that would, I believe, constitute provocation…damn this thing…under practically any circumstances.”
Frizzy red coils of hair brushed over Charles’ knuckles, some slipping forward around the bare curves of Pickles’ shoulders. The drummer leaned forward to chuckle into the crook of his elbow, laughter growing louder when that only made his manager move even closer, press down on his backbone more firmly. “S’pose yer right. So whaddya want me to do ‘bout it?”
An interesting answer at first as he spat into his free hand, wet his cock as much as his patience could stand. “Something of a contradiction,” Charles ground out, guiding himself forward to nudge at the hot opening into the smaller man’s body. “I want you to…mmm…relax…yes…and hold on…ahh…hold on tight.”
Familiar burning, accented by speed and sloppily lax preparation, found Pickles biting down hard into the thick muscle of in his forearm, teeth digging in enough to later leave an oval ring of bruises as his manager slid in all the way in a single steady push. More teeth, not his, found the side of his neck and spread a welcome blossom of distracting, teasing pleasure-pain. And then all he could do was follow Charles’ instructions, clinging to the top of the piano, nails scrabbling at the painted wood, as he was fucked hard and fast. It was downright brutal especially since he could do little more than take it. Charles had moved his hands, one down to his hip to help pin him in place and the other up to keep his own safely on top of the instrument. His cock had only air to meet it unless he wanted to risk the friction of the underside of the piano, which he didn’t particularly fancy. He was needy but he wasn’t desperate, not yet.
Usually Charles preferred to take things slow, a hair away from torturous while he teased his bed partner into a frenzy. Slow and smooth and often quiet - at least on his part - but this time, one of his odder arousal buttons pushed until it was stuck in the “ON” position, all he cared about was getting off. That and getting some noise out of the drummer before he shot off. Pickles, in spite of his accent and usual way of speaking, HAD been the lead singer for one of the biggest rock bands of the late ‘80s. When he wanted to, which wasn’t often except for when he was in the shower, particularly smashed from whiskey, or in bed, he could be quite musical vocally. There was this one sound, a throaty sort of moan pitched perfectly to a high bass G, that literally made Charles weak in the knees and had pushed him over the edge more than once. It was a particularly nice moan and, if anyone happened to walk in on them, at the very least he wanted them to come away from the discovery mildly impressed.
“Uhhn, Chuck.” Pickles’ head lolled, rolled forward to offer the back of his neck. Whether it was a weird submission thing or if he just was really sensitive there, being bitten at that spot where his spine met his skull always made him feel really turned on and set his pulse thundering in his ears. There was little else he could do. Every time he tried to match the other man’s rhythm, attempted to move his body away from where his ribs and naked hipbones were grating against the wood, Charles put even more weight on him and pressed him even harder into the piano. It was pretty hot actually but his cock still hadn’t gotten any attention and he craved a distraction from its steady demanding throbs for touch. “C’mon doooood…give a guy a brea-aaahhn.”
A growl, an actual growl as Pickles would later keep reminding him with a lopsided grin and really bad insinuations and jokes about puppies, ripped its way out of Charles’ throat as his teeth closed over the offered bit of salty flesh. Suction and pressure, blood vessels popping and thin stretched skin THIS close to puncturing, and he had his sound. The drummer stiffened at first and then went slack, pleased, perfectly in tune moaning interrupting his half-begged complaints. There was no more resistance and Charles slammed into Pickles hard enough to send the piano scraping an inch or so over the floor. A final shove, twice as brutal as his first, and he shuddered, spilling into the willing drummer’s body.
Weight sagged, both men more or less held up by the sturdy frame of the piano, and Pickles managed a whispered “fuck” after a moment, fighting against the hold still over his arms and at the too-soft rasp of Charles’ tongue over what would be a wicked bruise in a few hours. He was still hard and ready, the rest of his body over-stimulated and the possibly splintery underside of the piano growing more appealing by the second. But before he even had a chance to throw off the manager’s grip and wrap a hand around his waiting flesh, Charles surprised him again. In a move the drummer was too bemused and horny to follow, he was spun and lifted, palms cupping his buttocks for a moment before he was deposited on the body-warmed top of the piano.
“Muther douchebag! Chuck, what the hell?”
Change and a lighter rattled as they hit the floor, falling out of a jeans’ pocket when one leg was yanked the rest of the way off in response to the question. Charles moved in, replaced his hands on what he could manage to grab of Pickles’ ass to tug the drummer forward even as he leaned over to lay a wet stripe over the raw patch of skin at a slightly protruding hipbone. Clever, talented fingers worked their way into his hair; thumbs smoothing over his jaw before pressure none too subtly urged him away from the scrape and towards the redhead’s neglected erection.
Heat. God, so hot and wet. Charles’s face was buried in his lap, mouth working quickly and deeply, for once no teasing, and Pickles reveled in the feeling of his well-earned relief. The hands on his ass worked in conjunction with his own jerking hips, lifting him up and working him towards the back of the manager’s throat. He was close, Charles doing amazing things with his tongue and trying his damnedest to take in every last bit of him. Sharp, white-covered elbows dug into the drummer’s thighs and the grip on his rear tightened as he was spread wider, open and aching and his skin slick from the semen leaking out of him onto the surface of the piano lid.
“Ah gahd…Charlie!”
His world narrowed to a tiny window; the heat of the air from his nostrils as he breathed in as deeply as he could manage with his nose pressed into the coarse auburn hair at Pickles’ groin, the weight in his hands that had gotten slippery, the pressure at the back of his mouth and on his palate, the taste against his tongue as he swirled it along the underside of the drummer’s cock. Charles scarcely felt it when he was pressed even closer, fingers digging into his skull and not letting him move back. He concentrated on working the muscles in his throat, on coaxing out the redhead’s release and was rewarded mere instants later as Pickles threw his head back and came with loud yell. Charles swallowed almost reflexively, getting most of it before he pulled away, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he straightened. Pickles’ usually vibrant green eyes were hazy, glazed over from the rush, and Ofdensen offered the drummer a smug smile as he tucked himself back inside his pants.
“Have you learned your lesson Pickles?”
The drummer blinked, shook his head absently. He made quite a picture, perched on the sticky edge of the piano with his jeans around one ankle and a hickey slowly resolving itself on the side of his neck.
“Wha? Oh, yeah. Yeah I got it, Chuck. ‘S bin drilled inta me I guess you could say.”
He let his dark gaze over the rims of his spectacles answer that before he bent down to pick up his suit jacket. “Good. I don’t want to have to teach it again.”
“No worries there, dood.”
No, no worries at all. They both knew that even as he spoke Pickles was mentally trying to figure out just how many pianos he could get into Mordhaus and where he could put them. Life back home was going to be very…vigorous…for a while.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 05:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-14 09:42 am (UTC)Freeballing...I love that episode. Thanks, Pickles, for making me imagine that they run around without underwear on most of the time. God...it's canon.